


A Little Post-Case Amusement

by WatsonsStressBall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Captain John Watson takes what he wants, Dubious Consent, First Time, Inexperienced Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, and Sherlock likes it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonsStressBall/pseuds/WatsonsStressBall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock prides himself on his skills at escapology, but John has a couple of surprises in store for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"That was so ridiculous," gasped John. He shut the door to 221B, staggered to his chair, and collapsed into it, giggling madly.

Sherlock sprawled on the sofa and smirked. "I told you it would be fine."

"Lucky for us those guys were so incompetent, though. Can you believe the way they tied us together? Even my mum could have gotten out of that!" choked John, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

"It wouldn't have mattered either way," replied Sherlock. "I have made it my business to learn the art of escapology. There are few who could hold me against my will."

John snorted. "Get real," he said. "Any fellow with a basic knowledge of knots could probably manage to put you in your place."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at this. "Would you care to test that?"

"Any day of the week. I was in the army, Sherlock, remember?"

"Oh dear, how could I forget?" sneered Sherlock. "Please, John, I hope you aren't insinuating that your experience as a surgeon had you tying anything more than sutures. Or did you sew your prisoners into submission?"

Any man with more of a sense of self-preservation might have backed down at the dangerous glint in John Watson's eye. Unfortunately, self-preservation was an instinct with which Sherlock Holmes was unusually deficient.

*****

"Here we go," said John, emerging from his room a few minutes later, holding a fistful of neckties.

"Really," Sherlock drawled, "Neckties, John? I thought you were going to attempt to tie me up, not dress me up."

"Shut it, wisearse."

Sherlock removed his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa, where it joined his coat and scarf. No sense in wrinkling his suit just for this ridiculous exhibition.

*****

John pulled one last knot tight, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. "There," he said with some satisfaction, "that should hold you for a while."

Sherlock yawned pointedly. "Are you sure this is the best you can manage? If you like, I can call for Mrs. Hudson to come up and give you a hand." He began tentatively twisting his wrists behind his back, trying to explore the knots with his fingers.

"Keep laughing, genius," said John, "and maybe I'll gag you for good measure."

"You won't get the chance. I'll be out of this in under three minutes."

"Oh, really?" John replied. "You seem pretty confident."

"That's because I am confident. I have spent many hours practicing to get out of bindings far more restrictive than these."

Now it was John's turn to smirk. "OK, then, Sherlock," he began. "If you're so sure, why don't we make this a bit more interesting?"

"Oh yes, please, let's do try to make this in any way less dull," retorted Sherlock, still testing the limits of his bonds. "I can practically feel my brain shriveling in my skull. Honestly, John, this isn't even a challenge."

For once, Sherlock saw a look on John's face that he found difficult to interpret; but after trying and failing to match it to his inner catalog of "John's facial expressions," he mentally dismissed it as unimportant.

*****

John emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea. He watched Sherlock's increasingly frustrated attempts to free himself, smiled, and sat down in obvious contentment.

Sherlock ignored him, focusing his efforts on escaping his current predicament. John felt cheerful anticipation rising in him like a bubble as he regarded Sherlock's squirming. The younger man's face was growing flushed with his exertions, and John caught himself staring at Sherlock's chest, where two buttons of his typically tight shirt had sprung open.

Maybe it had just been too long since he'd gotten laid, or maybe it was the gradual emergence of a feeling that John had tried too long to keep buried; but whatever the reason, John was experiencing an almost predatory enjoyment of his flatmate's struggles. He began to wonder what it would take for Sherlock to concede the battle, and what price Sherlock was willing to pay for losing the bet. He unconsciously licked his lips.

For his part, Sherlock was rapidly going from confident, to disconcerted, to annoyed, and eventually, to outraged. It was not possible that John could have bested him in this; but as he tugged, teased, picked, and ultimately, yanked furiously at the neckties (one of which was garishly decorated in cartoon characters for God's sake), he began to consider that he might have to acknowledge defeat. 

As he reached fruitlessly for the knots that bound his ankles, Sherlock snuck a look at John's face and was struck by the man's expression. John seemed strangely engaged in Sherlock's movements, his cheeks glowing, his lips parted, his eyes bright. Sherlock suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He had bet John that if he could not free himself, John could name a task and he, Sherlock, would perform it. He'd figured that at worst he'd end up cleaning the kitchen, or running out to fetch milk; but as Sherlock pondered John's unusual interest, it began to dawn on him that payment could potentially take another form. His heart thumped unexpectedly hard in his chest, and he felt his face grow even warmer than before.

Here he was, bound hand and foot on the sofa, and potentially at John's mercy. Images leapt into his mind, possible scenarios that could play out should John win, and Sherlock found himself suddenly fighting not only his restraints, but a growing and shocking sense of arousal.

How did we get here, Sherlock wondered desperately, and what will John do next?


	2. Chapter 2

John leaned forward in his chair, staring as Sherlock stopped struggling for a moment. His flatmate's hair was disheveled and his clothing mussed; his tailored shirt was almost completely untucked from his well-fitting trousers, and indeed was half-unbuttoned, exposing a chest lightly dusted with dark hair and, further down, a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth, pale skin just above his left hip. Sherlock rested for few minutes, breathing hard from his exertions, his wrists already showing the reddened marks left behind by the restraints. For some reason, the sight was far more interesting than it should have been, and John swallowed uncomfortably, shifting in his seat.

He had always privately acknowledged that his flatmate was unfairly good-looking ("for a man," John thought). How was it possible that Sherlock was gifted not only with a prodigious intellect, but also with a stunning body? Even his face, which had seemed strange, almost alien, at first, boasted unbelievably plush lips ("for a man," John thought again) and the most spectacular eyes John had ever seen.

Now John gazed at Sherlock, lying helplessly bound hand and foot on the sofa, and he became unsettlingly aware of a growing warmth and excitement. Those lips, slightly parted as Sherlock exhaled -- he imagined himself making Sherlock use that mouth for more than insults and rapid-paced stream-of-consciousness deductions. Sherlock's slender hips and well-made arse, flexing with the effort to wriggle free...John was suddenly seized with the mad temptation to stretch out his hand, to touch, to caress, to _grope_. He reddened then and reached for his cooling mug, trying to force these unwanted thoughts back into the locked basement of his mind, where they should have stayed.

Sherlock, for his part, was already tiring, having slept and eaten far too little in the last couple of days. The knots John had tied were unexpectedly recalcitrant and placed so as to be almost impossible to manipulate, except with the very tips of his fingernails, no matter how he strained. It seemed almost impossible, but he was forced to admit that he might be stymied. How long had he been at this? And how long before John would demand Sherlock's capitulation...and his payment? And what form would that payment take? Sherlock glanced over to John, taking in his posture, his strangely fevered expression, the way he kept shifting in his seat, and felt a peculiar and appallingly delicious sense of vulnerability and anticipation. Treacherous transport! Sherlock cursed himself, willing his unwanted arousal to subside. He closed his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed, and focused on steadying his breathing.

"All right?" he heard John say then.

Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled. "Yes, John," he snapped, "I am perfectly fine."

John's lips twitched in what might have been a tiny smile. "You sure?" he inquired. "You seem a bit tired. Sure you don't want to--"

"I am _fine_ , John," Sherlock bit out, "do be quiet and let me do this."

John subsided, but as he reached for the newspaper, his expression betrayed a mixture of amusement, nervousness, impatience, and a poorly hidden but growing desire.

Sherlock shivered and resumed his struggle.

*****

John was trying and failing to read the sports section when he became aware of two things: first, that he had been cycling over the same two lines for some time; second, that Sherlock seemed to have fallen strangely quiet. He lowered his paper and looked.

On the sofa, Sherlock was slumped in his restraints, eyes closed, brow furrowed, and trying to regulate his breathing. 

John half-rose, then thought better of it and stayed seated, folding the newspaper into his lap. "Sherlock?" he ventured.

With an effort, Sherlock turned to look at John. He tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but his eyes were dark, and John could see his pulse leaping in his neck.

"John," Sherlock returned then, but it came out lower and rougher than usual.

John noticed, and his glance strayed down to Sherlock's crotch in spite of himself. Was that a bulge? Oh, God, he thought, is it possible that Sherlock is enjoying this? His own member went from half-mast to fully erect at the idea, and he tried unsuccessfully to stamp down the heat that was rising in his belly.

Sherlock saw John's eyes darken and fought to keep from trembling even as he was broadsided by a spike of lust, followed closely by terror. He swallowed, and John's eyes followed the movement of his throat.

"John," he tried again, and he found mild comfort in the fact that it came out more normally this time. He continued, "It would seem that you have me at a disadvantage this time. Well done."

John looked him over, color rising to his face and spreading down his neck. He cleared his throat. "OK," he said. "I suppose you are asking me to untie you now?"

"If it is convenient, yes."

"I see. OK," said John. He eyed Sherlock's bound form, marking again the bulge in his otherwise well-fitting trousers, and made a decision. His tongue peeked out from between his lips, then retreated. "There is just one little matter that I would like to settle first." He stood then, and now there was no mistaking the air of command, the military bearing...or the very noticeable evidence of his arousal. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought.

Sherlock stared up at his friend. "Yes, of course," he replied after a beat. "Our little bet."

"Mmm, yes. About that." John leaned down, reached out a hand. Sherlock gasped, then closed his eyes and gave himself over with a little shiver as John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's dark, silky curls. The older man knelt next to the sofa then, placed his lips to Sherlock's ear, and breathed, "Tell me you don't want this."

"Want what?" asked Sherlock, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

For answer, John traced a finger along Sherlock's jawline, then ran his hand down the side of Sherlock's neck, down to his chest, where his shirt was still open. His fingers dipped beneath Sherlock's shirt and brushed a nipple, and Sherlock quivered at the touch. God, John hadn't even dared to dream of doing this before, but now...possibilities unfolded in his mind, and he felt almost giddy with the realization that this could really happen.

"I have some ideas," said John then, "and after all, you won't be going anywhere for a while." He smiled then, and watched his friend's face as he reached and undid a button on the bound man's shirt, then another.

There was a quick intake of breath from Sherlock as fingers strayed down to his lower belly, wandered beneath the waistband of his trousers, his pants. Steady hands unfastened his fly and tugged down his pants, and Sherlock jerked and twitched in his restraints. Then John reached up, stripped off his jumper, opened his own trousers, and pulled down both trousers and pants.

For the first time, Sherlock gazed at John's erection, now inches from his face. He could smell John's unique scent, and his own cock jumped in response.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?" said Sherlock, staring at his conqueror's crotch.

John's smile widened. "You're the genius," said John. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Oh, God. "John," Sherlock began uncertainly, "I-- My experience with this sort of thing, it's, it's not..."

"Tell me," said John then, caressing the side of Sherlock's face. "Tell me you don't want this."

Sherlock looked up at him, his cock aching with arousal and his mind racing with disbelief and nerves. "John..." he breathed, then swallowed once more, inhaled, and opened his mouth.

As John pressed forward into him, Sherlock moaned, pulling reflexively against his restraints. Fingers curled into his hair, cradling his skull, holding him in place. John's taste, John's smell, his texture on Sherlock's tongue, it was almost too much. He wrenched his eyes open and stared with difficulty up into John's face, suddenly consumed by the desire to see him.

He was not disappointed. John's expressive face, utterly honest and open, showed a passion and pleasure that made something twist in Sherlock's chest. He moaned again around the erection filling his mouth and felt John twitch in response. He breathed hard through his nose and rutted uselessly against nothing, in the wrong position to achieve any sort of friction and pinned helplessly in place.

As John continued to use his mouth, Sherlock wondered whether he would be expected to swallow, and his balls tightened at the thought. He was almost disappointed a minute later, when John, groaning, pulled out of Sherlock's mouth.

"God," said John, panting, "that...is amazing, but it would be a waste if I stopped there." 

"I don't understand," said Sherlock. He tried to achieve a more comfortable position and failed. The neckties were chafing his wrists, ankles, and knees, and his unattended erection shouted for attention.

"Oh, it will all become clear very shortly," John told him. "But first..." He reached over to the back of the sofa and retrieved Sherlock's scarf.

"John, what...?" started Sherlock, but that was all he got out as John tied a knot in the scarf, forced it between Sherlock's teeth, and tied the ends firmly at the back of his head.

As Sherlock struggled, tossing his head, mouth full of scarf and the taste of semen, John smirked down at him. "Oh, don't worry," said John. "I was done with your mouth, that's all." Sherlock's eyes widened as John's hand wandered down and stroked his bare arse.

"There is still plenty of time left in the day, after all. And as I said before...you're not going anywhere anyway. Not for a while, at any rate."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock lay on his side on the sofa, his shirt opened and pushed back over his shoulders, his trousers and pants down around his knees, bound with neckties and gagged with his own scarf. On the floor in front of him lay John's jumper, shoes, socks, trousers, and pants; he could hear their owner's footsteps upstairs, moving about and rattling things. He fidgeted, chewing on his sodden gag, and wondered what was coming next. He was burning with curiosity, but at the same time, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what John had in mind.

I suppose I'll find out soon enough, he thought wryly to himself.

Momentarily, he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, then John walked into view, naked from the waist down. He set a couple of condoms, a small bottle of lube, and a box of tissues on the coffee table, and then picked up his mug and went into the kitchen without saying a word.

Sherlock twisted awkwardly and stared at the items sitting on the table. He tried to read the label on the lube, but couldn't parse its meaning over the roaring in his head, could barely hear the clattering noises John was making in the kitchen for the pounding of the blood in his ears.

*****

John emptied the cold tea down the drain in the sink and set down his mug. He briefly considered making a fresh cup, leaving Sherlock to stew for a little while longer, but he felt too eager to carry on with what promised to be a very satisfying evening.

He'd had no idea Sherlock would ever be remotely interested in anything like this, let alone so beautifully responsive. The way his eyes had darkened when he'd realized he was at John's mercy, the erotic writhing of his lithe body in his tight bonds, the way he'd moaned as John's cock filled his mouth -- God, it was better than anything John ever could have imagined. He couldn't believe how much time they'd wasted, never having tried this before.

John fully intended to make up for some of that lost time tonight.

*****

Sherlock was still lying quietly on the sofa as John walked back into the living room. The younger man's erection had flagged somewhat, but began to perk back up as John reached down and stroked down his length with one finger. Sherlock's eyes turned toward John then, widening as he saw John's own cock twitch to full engorgement. He tried to speak, then, but whatever he had to say was completely muffled and made unintelligible by the material filling his mouth. He closed his eyes then with a tiny whimper, and John was moved and helplessly aroused by the vulnerability in Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," said John quietly, sliding his hand over Sherlock's hip. Sherlock twitched, but kept his eyes closed, clenching his teeth on his gag. John tried again, stroking down Sherlock's exposed flank. "Sherlock," he repeated, and this time, Sherlock opened his eyes. His pupils were enormous in his strange, beautiful eyes, and John felt a surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He took a deep breath to steady himself, fighting the impulse to roll Sherlock onto his front and just fuck him into the cushions.

"You know what I'm planning to do to you next, don't you, Sherlock?" John heard himself say. Sherlock's eyes moved to the supplies on the table, and John thought he saw the younger man shiver. He pressed on, relentlessly.

"I want this, but not if you don't want it too," he murmured, his hand on Sherlock's thigh, reaching to feel the curve of his arse. "So I need you to let me know. If you want me to stop, you have to let me know. Otherwise..." his other hand came up, touched Sherlock's neck, traced his collarbone, strayed down and teased one nipple, pinching and rolling. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight and whimpered into his gag, but stayed still.

God, Sherlock was beautiful like this, John thought. And if his mouth was hot...well, fucking that perfect arse was likely to be even better. 

Suddenly, John couldn't wait anymore. He reached for the lube and uncapped it.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he knew exactly what John was doing and what was about to happen. The sound of the cap popping open went through him like a shot, and he instinctively jerked against his restraints, but raised no real objection. John eased him over onto his stomach, and Sherlock tried to resist the urge to rut into the cushions as he felt John's hands spread him, exposing his entrance. Then one wet finger pressed against the untried opening, and a high-pitched whine escaped him through the gag.

He could feel John's other hand stroking the muscles of his lower back as that single finger pushed inexorably inward, reaching inside to stroke and rub him there. Then John withdrew, applied more lube, and inserted a second finger, and Sherlock groaned at the burning stretch, bucking against John's fingers even as the older man held him down with one arm across his back. He could still taste John on his tongue if he concentrated, and he moaned as he remembered how John had taken his mouth, knowing that John was about to take so much more.

Then the fingers twisted and stroked, and Sherlock cried out into his gag, yanking hard against the ties that were utterly unyielding. He writhed, but the other hand had moved up to grip the back of his neck, and he could not get away. There was no escape from the pleasurable assault that was taking place, and he almost sobbed with frustration.

A jolt of excitement shot through John as Sherlock let out another strangled cry, and he withdrew his fingers, grabbed a condom packet, and ripped it open. He saw goosebumps on Sherlock's thighs as he rolled the condom on and slicked himself well with more lubricant. He repositioned Sherlock then for better access and climbed on top of him.

Sherlock trembled under John's weight as he felt John's hands on his hips, then the blunt, thick head of John's cock at his entrance as John lined himself up. He wondered if there was any chance that he might be dreaming, but the feeling of the gag filling his mouth, the chafing of the bonds against his skin, John's hands on his body, the feeling of being penetrated, they were all too real. He moaned and twitched then, unable to keep still as John began the long, slow push inside his body.

The experience far exceeded any of John's expectations. Sherlock was incredibly tight and hot inside, far hotter than his mouth. He groaned as he fought with himself to go as slowly as he could possibly manage, pushing bit by agonizing bit until at last the entirety of his cock was buried deep in Sherlock's arse. He paused then, breathing hard, gripping Sherlock's hips tightly and waiting for Sherlock to adjust.

At length he felt Sherlock begin to push back against him, and John began to fuck Sherlock in earnest, taking long, slow strokes that forced a grunt out of Sherlock every time he bottomed out. He marveled at the sight of Sherlock, tied and gagged beneath him, that perfect arse gripping his cock, and he struggled for control.

Sherlock could not keep still, nor could he remain quiet despite the gag. He whimpered and moaned continually, tossing his head, squirming beneath John and still trying in vain to pull free from his restraints. Every time John's cock brushed his prostate, he let out a strangled cry, and he tried desperately to get some much-needed friction by rubbing his aching erection against the sofa cushions.

Then he heard John say, "Need something?"

Sherlock tried to reply, but the sound that emerged from the gag was distorted and strained. John seemed to understand anyway, however, and a moment later, Sherlock felt John's left hand squirm beneath him to grip his erection, one thumb moving over his glans, swiping the wetness there across the head of his eager cock.

That was all it took. Sherlock shouted into the gag, then clenched his teeth hard as he pulsed over John's hand. John felt the irregular contractions of Sherlock's arse, and then he was coming too, gripping Sherlock's hip so tightly as to leave marks on Sherlock's pale flesh, grinding as far into his body as he could manage, and then holding himself there as the aftershocks subsided.

John rested on top of Sherlock a moment, catching his breath, before pulling carefully out of Sherlock's unresisting body, removing the condom, and tying it off. He took a tissue then, eased Sherlock onto his side, and tried to wipe off some of the worst of the mess.

Sherlock looked utterly wrecked, his face flushed, a sheen of sweat covering his body. His wrists and ankles were red and bore the marks of the bondage he'd endured, and his clothing was a wrinkled mess from being bunched uncomfortably around his restraints. He twisted gingerly, trying to ease his tired limbs, and looked wearily up at John, who smiled fondly down at him.

"That was lovely, Sherlock, just lovely. Thank you," John said then. He reached down and patted Sherlock's thigh, then stroked the sweaty curls from Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock hummed, then gazed up at him questioningly.

"Oh, yes, right. You did want me to untie you. Hmm. Well, about that."

What? Sherlock's mind whirled.

"You see...I'm finding that you're really much more fun like this for now. I mean, look, you're quiet, you haven't insulted me in over an hour, and, well, I like getting laid, I have to admit it. So if it's all the same to you, I think I'll hold off on releasing you. Just for a bit. And if you're good, very good, well...we'll see."

Sherlock groaned, but John just smirked and wandered upstairs. He returned momentarily with...

Oh, God. Sherlock thrashed and protested and tried his best to resist, but it was useless. John held him down easily with one hand and forced the plug up Sherlock's arse with the other, pushing relentlessly until it settled into place. He then produced a couple of lengths of clothesline and anchored Sherlock's ankles and wrists to the frame of the sofa, making escape virtually impossible.

Once that was done, John gave Sherlock what might have been his smuggest smile yet and strolled into the kitchen to make another cup of tea. He had all evening, after all, and he could always untie Sherlock later. Once he was fully satisfied, that is.


End file.
